Chapter VI: Part 6

Secondly, the theory did not explain how the letters were posted in London. However, though French was not entirely satisfied, he grew more and more convinced that he was on sure ground in suspecting Domlio. At all events, his next job must be to test the point.

First he decided to find out what Sergeant Daw could tell him about the colonel and early next morning saw him at the police station. The sergeant greeted him with a peculiar smile.

“I suppose, sir, you’ve heard the rumor that’s going round?” he asked at once.

“What’s that, Sergeant?”

“They say you’ve found out that Mr. Berlyn murdered Mr. Pyke out on the moor that night. Mrs. Billing, Pyke’s landlady, is supposed to have recognised the underclothes.”

French smiled.

“Well it’s quite true,” he admitted. “I didn’t mean to keep it from you, Sergeant, but I went off to London as soon as I discovered it. I warned Mrs. Billing not to talk, but I hardly believed she could help herself.”

The sergeant was evidently upset.

“I’m sorry about the whole thing, Mr. French. I should have thought Mr. Berlyn was the last man who would do such a thing.”

“You may be right. Indeed, it’s a matter arising out of that very point that I want to see you about. I have a notion there was a second person in it—some one who might even have taken the lead. Tell me”—French’s voice became very confidential—“what sort of a man is Colonel Domlio?”

The sergeant looked shocked.

“Colonel Domlio?” he repeated. “Surely, sir, you don’t mean to suggest that the colonel was mixed up in a murder?”

“You don’t think it likely?”

“I don’t, sir, and that’s a fact. The colonel’s a very quiet man and peculiar in some ways, but he’s well respected in the district.”

“So was many a murderer.”

The sergeant was clearly sceptical, though anxious to be polite. He said he was sure Mr. French would not speak without good reason, but his own view was evident.

“Well, tell me all you know about him, anyway.”

Domlio, it appeared, was a man of about forty-five, short, thickset, and dark. (Not the man who called for the crate, thought French.) He was very well off, and since his wife had died some six years earlier, had lived alone with his servants in his house on the moor. He held sufficient Veda stock to give him a controlling interest in the firm, acted as consulting engineer, and was usually referred to as the senior partner. Entomology was his pet hobby and it was believed that he was writing a book on the insect life of the moor.

He had four servants. Inside was John Burt, valet, butler, and general factotum, and his wife, Sarah Burt, who combined the offices of cook and general servant. Outside was an ex-service man named Coombe, who acted as chauffeur and general handy man, and an old gardener called Mee. Mee lived with his wife and daughter in the gate lodge and Coombe boarded with them. All, so far as the sergeant knew, were reliable people of good character.

“I’ll go out and see the colonel after lunch,” French announced. “Could you lend me a push bicycle? I don’t want all my movements reported on by the driver of a car.”

“I can borrow one for you, but it’ll not be much use on these hilly roads.”

“It’ll do all I want.”

A couple of hours later French set out. When near Colonel Domlio’s gate he hid the bicycle in the brushwood and approached the house on foot. It was a smallish, creeper-covered building, L-shaped, with thick walls and heavy overhanging eaves. At least a hundred years old, French thought. It stood some two hundred yards back from the road and was approached by a drive which wound between clumps of stunted trees and shrubs. In front was a small lawn of mown grass, while between the trees to the right French glimpsed the roofs of outbuildings. The place had a cared-for appearance. The woodwork of the house had been freshly painted, the flower beds were tidy, and the grass edges had recently been cut.

The door was opened by an elderly man in butler’s dress, honest and kindly-looking, but rather stupid. John Burt, evidently. He asked French to step inside while he took his card to his master.

The hall was of fair size, with a large, old-fashioned fireplace and lead-lighted windows. French had not much time to observe it, for Burt called him almost immediately into a room on the left of the hall door.

It was long, low, and delightfully furnished as a study. Bookcases lined the walls and a couple of deep saddle-bag armchairs stood on the soft Chinese carpet in front of the fireplace. A collector’s entomological cabinet was in one corner, with close by a table bearing books and a fine microscope. The room was evidently in the corner of the house, for there were French windows in adjacent walls. In one of these was a leather-topped desk and at the desk was seated a shortish man with a strong, clean-shaven face, iron grey hair, and a not too amiable expression. He rose as French entered.

“Inspector French of Scotland Yard, is it not? I have heard that you were in the town.”

“That’s correct, sir,” French answered, taking the chair to which the other pointed. “You’ve probably heard enough, then, to guess my business?”

Colonel Domlio squared his shoulders.

“I heard you were investigating the deaths of Mr. Berlyn and Mr. Pyke. I don’t know the object of this call.”

“I’ve come, Colonel Domlio, in connection with my investigation. I want to ask for your help in it.”

“What do you wish me to do?”

“Two things, sir. In the first place, I want any information you can give me about either of the two gentlemen you mentioned or anything which might throw light on the tragedy. Secondly, I would be obliged if you would answer the purely formal question that we inspectors have to ask all who were in any way connected with the victim of such a tragedy. Where were you yourself at the time of the occurrence?”

The colonel raised his eyebrows.

“Do you suspect me of murdering Mr. Pyke?” he asked, drily.

“I think, sir, you needn’t take up that line.” French’s tone was also a trifle dry. “I have explained that my question is a formal one, invariably put. You are not bound to answer it unless you wish.”

“If I don’t you will suspect me in reality, so I don’t see that I have much option. I was here, in this room.”

“Between what hours?”

“During the whole evening. I finished dinner about eight or a quarter past. Then I came in here and stayed here until I went to bed between one and two.”

“And no one came in during that time?”

“No one came in. I take nothing after dinner except a little whisky going to bed, and I have everything I want in the cupboard there. I’m writing a book at present and I don’t like to be disturbed in the evenings.”

“Then in the face of what you’ve said I presume I needn’t ask you if you heard any sound at the door or windows?”

“You need not.”

“And—excuse this question—you didn’t sleep at all during the evening? No one could have knocked while you were asleep?”

The Colonel smiled slightly.

“Ingenious,” he remarked, “but unproductive. No, I didn’t sleep at all.”

“Thank you,” said French, “that disposes of one question. Now the other. Can you tell me anything likely to be helpful to me about either of the two gentlemen?”

The colonel regretted that in this case also he could do nothing to oblige. He would answer Mr. French’s questions so far as he could, but he had nothing to volunteer. And French found that after half an hour’s interrogation he had learnt just nothing whatever.

“There is one other matter to which I must refer,” he said. “I regret the necessity, as it’s somewhat delicate. Common report says that Mrs. Berlyn was on very intimate terms first with Mr. Pyke and then with yourself. Would you tell me how far that is true?”

The colonel squared his shoulders again and French presently saw that it was an unconscious nervous trick.

“Is it really necessary that Mrs. Berlyn’s name should be dragged in?” he asked, stiffly.

“I’m afraid so. You will recognise that I am trying to find motives.”

“I don’t think you will find one there.”

“On the contrary, Colonel Domlio, I have evidence that Mr. Berlyn was acutely jealous.”

But the colonel was not to be drawn.

“That is news to me,” he declared.

“Well,” said French, doggedly, “I should like to have your definite statement as to whether such jealousy would or would not have been justified, in so far, at all events, as you yourself were concerned.”

The colonel smiled sardonically.

“I should say that it would not have been justified.”

“Very good, Colonel. I have now only one other request to make. I should like to interrogate your servants. Some of them may have seen or heard something which might be useful to me. Would you oblige me by calling them in and instructing them to reply to me?”

For the first time an uneasy look appeared in the colonel’s eyes.

“Surely that is unnecessary?” he demurred. “What could they possibly tell you?”

“Nothing, I very greatly fear,” French admitted. “But it is a routine enquiry and as such I dare not omit it.”

With an evident ill grace Colonel Domlio rang the bell. French, sensing his opposition, had become keenly alert. It seemed to him that he might be on the brink of learning something important. But instantly he decided that he would postpone serious examination of the staff until he had them to himself.

The butler, Burt, answered the bell.

“This gentleman is Mr. French, Burt,” said the colonel. “He wants to ask you some questions. You might answer him so far as you can.”

“It was only to know whether you heard or saw anything unusual on the night of the deaths of Mr. Berlyn and Mr. Pyke,” French explained.

The man denied with what French thought was over-earnestness. Moreover, he looked acutely uneasy, even scared. French felt a sudden thrill, but he merely nodded and said:

“You didn’t see any traces on the moor the next day?”

“Nothing whatever, sir,” said the man with evident relief.

“Thank you. That’s all I want. Now, Colonel, if I could see the others to put the same questions I should be finished.”

Mrs. Burt and the two outside men were produced in turn, and each denied having heard or seen anything unusual. Coombe and Mee, the chauffeur and gardener, were interested, but evidently nothing more. But Mrs. Burt reproduced all the signs of uneasiness which her husband had exhibited, only in an intensified degree. She was obviously terrified when French questioned her, and her relief when her ordeal was over was unmistakable.

But French apparently saw nothing amiss and when the quartet had gone he thanked Colonel Domlio for his assistance and apologised for the trouble he had given. And in the colonel’s manner he noticed the same repressed evidences of relief. That something had taken place that night of which the master of the house and the two domestics were aware, French was positive.

He left the house and regained the clump of brushwood in which he had hidden the bicycle. But he did not withdraw the machine. Instead, after a quick glance round he crept in beside it, pulling the bushes over him to make sure that he was invisible from the road. From his hiding-place he could see the entrance to “Torview,” as the colonel had named his house.

He was waiting on a pure chance, but after an hour he found that his luck was in. He heard the sounds of an engine being started up, and presently saw a small green car turn out of the drive and disappear in the direction of Ashburton. In the car was Colonel Domlio.

French allowed another twenty minutes to pass, then crawling out of the brushwood, he returned to the house. Burt again opened the door.

“I’m sorry to trouble you again, Mr. Burt,” he apologised, with his pleasant smile, “but I forgot to ask Colonel Domlio a question. Could I see him again just for a moment?”

“Colonel Domlio went out about half an hour ago, sir.”

“Ah, that’s very unfortunate.” French paused and looked disappointed, then brightened up. “Perhaps you could give me the information, if you would be so kind? I don’t want to have to come back another day.”

Burt was obviously disconcerted. But he tried to hide his feelings and reluctantly invited the caller into the study.

“Yes, sir?” he said.

French instantly became official and very stern. He swung round, frowning at the other and staring him full in the face. Then he said, harshly: “It is you I want to see, Burt. You lied to me this afternoon. I have come back to hear the truth.”

The man started and fell back a pace, while dismay and something like terror showed on his features.

“I don’t understand,” he stammered. “What do you mean?”

“It’s no use, Burt. You’ve given yourself away. You saw or heard something that night. What was it?”

“You’re mistaken, sir,” he declared, with a look of relief. “I neither saw nor heard anything. I swear it.” And then gaining confidence: “I don’t know what right you have to come here and tell me I was lying. I’m sure——”

“Cut it out,” French said, sharply. “Look here, Burt, do you want to be arrested on a charge of conspiracy to murder?”

Burt’s jaw dropped, but French did not give him time to reply.

“Because if you don’t you’ll tell what you know. Mr. Pyke was murdered that night, and perhaps Mr. Berlyn as well. They were not lost on the moor and it is believed they came here. If you keep back any information that might lead to the arrest of the murderer, it’s conspiracy—accessory after the fact. Ten years penal for that, Burt! Come along, now. Make up your mind whether you’re going to tell or face the judge.”

Burt’s face had grown pale, but he stuck to it that he had neither seen nor heard anything. French cut his protestations short.

“Fetch your wife,” he ordered.

The man’s manner as he heard these words, coupled with Mrs. Burt’s evident fear when originally questioned, assured French that this time he was on the right track. With evident unwillingness the woman appeared.

“Now, Mrs. Burt, I want to know what you heard or saw on the night of the tragedy. There is no use in telling me there was nothing. Now out with it!” And in terse language he explained what accessory after the fact meant, and its penalty.

Mrs. Burt was of less stern stuff than her husband. Under French’s examination she was soon in tears and presently, disjointed and in fragments, her story came out.

It appeared that on the night of the tragedy she slept badly, owing to some small indisposition. Shortly after one she woke in considerable pain. She endured it for a time, then thinking that perhaps a hot drink would help her, she decided to go down to the kitchen and heat some milk. She got up quietly so as not to awake her husband, and left the bedroom. A quarter-moon dimly lit up the staircase and hall, so she carried no light. Just as she reached the head of the lower flight of stairs she heard the front door open. Startled, she drew back into the shadows, peering down at the same time into the hall. She was relieved to see that it was Colonel Domlio. He wore a hat and overcoat, and taking these off, he moved very quietly across the hall. Then she heard the click of the cloakroom door and slight sounds of movement as he approached the stairs. She slipped back into the passage which led to the servants’ quarters and in a few seconds the colonel’s bedroom door closed softly. This was a few minutes past two o’clock.

It was unusual for the colonel to be out at night and her woman’s curiosity led her to examine the hat and coat. They were soaking wet. Rain was falling, but only very slightly, and she realised, therefore, that he must have been out for a considerable time.

She thought no more of the incident, and having had her hot milk, returned to bed. But she had not slept, and soon Sergeant Daw appeared with his story of the missing men. This excited but did not perturb her, but when, a few minutes later, she heard Colonel Domlio assuring the sergeant that he had spent the whole evening in his study until going up to bed, she felt that something was wrong. But it was not until the next day, when she had learnt the full details of what had happened and had talked the matter over with her husband, that any possible sinister significance of her master’s action occurred to her. Burt, however, had pointed out that it was not their business and that their obvious policy was silence.

Mrs. Burt did not state that she had coupled the colonel’s nocturnal excursion with the tragedy, but French could sense that this was in both her and her husband’s minds. He wondered what motive they could have suspected and further questions showed that it was connected with the colonel’s intimacy with Mrs. Berlyn. According to Mrs. Burt this had been more serious than he had imagined. Mrs. Berlyn had spent several afternoons and an occasional evening with the colonel in his study and they were known to have had many excursions together on the moor. Since the tragedy, moreover, both the Burts noticed a change in their master. He had developed fits of abstraction and brooding and acted as if he had a weight on his mind.

Believing he had got all he could from the couple, French warned them to keep his visit to themselves and immensely comforted Mrs. Burt by assuring her that she had told him little that he had not known before. Then saying he wished to have another word with the two outside men, he left the house and walked round the outbuildings.

At the back of the main house was a large walled yard with an old-fashioned stone-built well in the center and farm buildings along one side. Wheel tracks leading into one of these indicated that it was the garage, and there, polishing up some spare parts, was Coombe.

French repeated his explanation about having forgotten to ask Colonel Domlio a question, then, after chatting for some moments, he returned to the night of the tragedy. Putting up a bluff, he asked at what hours the colonel had taken out and brought back the car.

Coombe was considerably taken aback by the question and said at once that he knew nothing about it.

“But,” said French, in apparent surprise, “you must have known that the car was out?”

To his delight, the man did not deny it. Oh yes, he knew that, but he had not heard it pass and he didn’t know when it had left or returned.

“Then how did you know it had been out? Did Colonel Domlio tell you?”

“No, he didn’t say naught about it. I knew by the mud on the car and the petrol that had been used.”

“Pretty smart of you, that,” French said, admiringly. “So there was mud on her? Was she clean the night before?”

“No. He had her out in the afternoon and got her a bit dirty. But he said it was late and for me not to bother with her till the next day, and so I let her alone.”

“Naturally. And was much petrol gone?”

“’Bout two gallons.”

“Two gallons,” French repeated, musingly. “That would run her about forty miles, I suppose?”

“Easy that and more.”

“You live at the lodge gate, don’t you, Coombe?”

“That’s right.”

“Then the car must have passed you twice in the night. Surely you would have heard it?”

“I might not. Anyhow, I wouldn’t if she went out the back way.”

All this was excessively satisfactory to French. The theory he had formed postulated that Domlio had secretly run his car to the works on the night of the tragedy. And now it looked as if he had done so. At least, he had taken the car out. And not only had he denied it, but he had arranged that the machine should be left dirty so that the fresh mud it might gather should not show. Furthermore, the hour at which he returned exactly worked in.

For a moment French was puzzled about the quantity of petrol which had been used. Forty miles or more was enough for two trips to the works. Then he saw that to carry out the plan Domlio must have driven there twice. First he must have been at the works about ten to drug Gurney’s tea. Then he must have gone in about midnight with Berlyn and Pyke. So this also fitted in.

French, always thorough, interviewed Mee. But he was not disappointed when he found the man could tell him nothing. Keenly delighted with his progress, he renewed his directions to keep his visit secret, and took his leave.

Chapter Fourteen

French Turns Fisherman

On reaching the road, French returned to his clump of brushwood and once more concealed himself. He was anxious to intercept Domlio before he reached home and received the account of the afternoon’s happenings. A question as to the man’s nocturnal activities would be more effective were it unexpected.

Though French enjoyed moorland scenery, he had more than enough of this particular view as he sat waiting for the colonel’s appearance. Every time he heard a car he got up hopefully, only to turn back in disappointment. Again and again he congratulated himself that he had found a position which commanded the entrances of both front and back drives, or he would have supposed that his quarry had eluded him. For two hours he waited and then at last the green car hove in sight. He stepped forward with upraised arm.

“Sorry to stop you, Colonel,” he said, pleasantly, “but I have had some further information since I saw you and I wish to put another question. Will you tell me, please, where exactly you took your car on the night of the tragedy?”

The colonel was evidently taken aback, though not so much as French had hoped.

“I thought I had explained that I wasn’t out on that night,” he answered, with only a very slight pause.

“To be candid,” French rejoined, “that’s why I am so anxious to have an answer to my question. If there was nothing in the trip which would interest me, why should you try to hide it?”

“How do you know I was out?”

“You may take it from me, sir, that I am sure of my ground. But if you don’t care to answer my question I shall not press it. In fact, I must warn you that any answers you give me may be used against you in evidence.”

In spite of evident efforts the colonel looked uneasy.

“What?” he exclaimed, squaring his shoulders. “Does this mean that you really suppose I am guilty of the murder of Mr. Pyke?”

“It means this, Colonel Domlio. You’ve been acting in a suspicious way and I want an explanation. I’m not making any charges, simply, I’ve got to know. Whether you tell me now or not is a matter for yourself.”

“If I don’t tell you, does it mean that you will arrest me?”

“I don’t say so, but it may come to that.”

The colonel gave a mirthless laugh.

“Then I’m afraid I have no alternative. There is no mystery whatever about my taking out the car that night and I have no objection to telling you the whole thing.”

“But you denied that you had done so.”

“I did, and there I admit having made a foolish blunder. But my motive in doing so must be obvious.”

“I’m afraid not so obvious as you seem to think. However, having regard to my warning, if you care to answer my question I shall be pleased to hear your statement.”

“I’ll certainly answer it. Possibly you know that I am interested in entomology? I think I told you I was writing a book about the insects of the moor?

“In order to get material for my book I make expeditions all over the moor. I made one on that day of the tragedy. I went to a little valley not far from Chagford where there are numbers of a certain kind of butterfly of which I wanted some specimens for microscopic purposes. While chasing one of these I had the misfortune to get a severe fall. My foot went into a rabbit hole and I crashed, as the airmen say. I was winded and it was some time before I could get up, but I was thankful not to have broken my leg, as I might easily have done. That put me off running for one day and I crawled back to the car and drove home.

“I was feeling a bit shaken and I went up to bed early that night, just before eleven. When I began to undress I found I had lost a miniature which I always carry and which I value extremely, not so much because of its intrinsic worth, but for sentimental reasons. Here it is.”

He took a small gold object from his pocket and passed it across. It was of a charming design, exquisitely chased and set with diamonds, and French saw at once that it was of considerable value. It contained the portrait of a woman—a beautiful haunting face, clear cut as a cameo. The whole thing was a wonderful example of artistic skill.

“My late wife,” Colonel Domlio explained as he replaced it in his pocket. “As you can imagine, I was distressed by the loss. I could only account for it by supposing it had dropped out of my pocket when I fell. I thought over it for some time and then I decided to go out to the place then and there and have a look for it, lest some shepherd or labourer might find it in the early morning. I did so. I took out the car and a strong electric torch and went back, and on searching the place where I fell I found it almost immediately. I came straight back, arriving shortly after two. Does that satisfy you?”

“No,” said French. “Not until you explain why you denied having been out when Sergeant Daw asked you.”

“That, as I have said, was a mistake. But you can surely understand my motive. When I heard the sergeant’s story I recognised at once that my having taken out the car was a very unfortunate thing for me. I felt sure that foul play would sooner or later be suggested and I thought I should be suspected. I couldn’t prove where I had been and I was afraid I should not be believed when I explained.”

“I’m afraid that is not very clear. Why did you imagine that foul play would be suspected?”

Domlio hesitated.

“I suppose,” he said at last, “things have gone so far there is no use in trying to keep anything back. I knew that there was bad blood between Berlyn and Pyke. The sergeant’s news at once suggested to me that the trouble might have come to a head. I hoped not, of course, but the idea occurred to me.”

“Even yet I don’t understand. What was the cause of the bad blood between those two and how did you come to know of it?”

“Surely,” Domlio protested, “it is not necessary to go into that? I am only accounting for my own actions.”

“It is necessary in order to account for your own actions.”

Domlio squared his shoulders.

“I don’t think I should tell you, only that, unfortunately, it is pretty well common property. I hate dragging in a lady’s name, though you have already done it, but the truth is that they had had a misunderstanding about Mrs. Berlyn.”

“About Mrs. Berlyn?”

“Yes. She and Pyke saw rather too much of each other. I don’t for a moment believe there was the slightest cause for jealousy, but Berlyn was a bit exacting and he probably made a mountain out of a molehill. I knew Mrs. Berlyn pretty well myself, and I am certain that Berlyn had no real cause for complaint.”

“You haven’t explained how you came to know of the affair?”

“It was common property. I don’t think I can tell you where I first heard of it.”

French considered for a moment.

“There is another thing, Colonel Domlio. You said that when you heard the sergeant’s story you suspected the trouble between the two men had come to a head?”

“Might have come to a head. Yes.”

“Suppose it had. Why, then, did you fear that the sergeant might have suspected you?”

Again Domlio hesitated.

“That is a nasty question, Inspector,” he said at last, “but from what you asked me in my study you might guess the answer. As a matter of fact, I had myself seen a good deal of Mrs. Berlyn for some time previously. About this there was nothing in the slightest degree compromising. All through we were merely friends. Not only that, but Berlyn knew of our meetings and excursions. When he could he shared them, and he had not the slightest objection to our intimacy. But Daw wouldn’t know that. For all I could tell, the excellent scandalmongers of the district had coupled Mrs. Berlyn’s name with mine. Berlyn was dead and gone and he could not state his views. My word would not be believed, nor Mrs. Berlyn’s, neither, if she were dragged into it. I thought, at all events, I had better keep secret a mysterious excursion which might easily be misunderstood.”

Not very convincing, French thought, as he rapidly considered what the colonel had told him. However, it _might_ be true. At all events, he had no evidence to justify an arrest. He therefore pretended that he fully accepted the statement, and, wishing the colonel a cheery good evening, stood aside to let the car pass.

As he cycled slowly into Ashburton he kept turning over in his mind the question of whether there was any way in which he could test the truth of Colonel Domlio’s statement. Frankly, he did not believe the story. But unbelief was no use to him. He must prove it true or false.

All the evening he puzzled over the problem, then at last he saw that there was a line of research which, though it might not solve the point in question, yet bade fair to be of value to the enquiry as a whole.

Once again it concerned a time-table—this time for Domlio’s presumed movements. Assume that Berlyn and Pyke reached the point at which the car was abandoned about 11.30. To convince Pyke of the _bona fides_ of the breakdown, Berlyn would have to spend some time over the engine, say fifteen minutes. In the dark they could scarcely have reached Torview in less than another fifteen; say that by the time Domlio had admitted them it was close on midnight. Some time would then be consumed in explaining the situation and in getting out the car; in fact, the party could scarcely have left Torview before 12.10. Running to the works would have occupied the most of another half hour; say arrive 12.40. Domlio reached his home about 2.10, which, allowing half an hour for the return journey, left an hour unaccounted for. In this hour Pyke’s murder must have been committed, the duplicator taken to pieces and the parts left in the store, fresh tea put into Gurney’s flask, Pyke’s clothes and the small parts of the duplicator got rid of, and the magneto on Berlyn’s car changed.

French wondered if all these things could have been done in the time. At last, after working out a detailed time-table, he came to the conclusion that they could, on one condition: that the clothes and duplicator parts were got rid of on the way to Torview; that is, if no time were lost in making a detour.

Where, then, could this have been done?

French took his map and considered the route. The Dart River was crossed three times and a part of the way lay through woods. But he believed that too many tourists strayed from the road for these to be safe hiding-places, though he realised that they might have to be searched later.

There remained two places, either of which he thought more promising—the works and Domlio’s grounds.

The fact that elaborate arrangements had been made to get Pyke’s body away from the works indicated that the disposal of it there was considered impossible. Nevertheless, French spent the next day, which was Sunday, prowling about the buildings, though without result.

This left Domlio’s little estate, and early the following morning French borrowed the sergeant’s bicycle and rode out to his former hiding-place outside the gates. History repeated itself, for after waiting for nearly two hours he saw Domlio pass out towards Ashburton.

As the car had not been heard by either Coombe or Mee on the night of the tragedy, it followed that it had almost certainly entered by the back drive. French now walked up this lane to the yard, looking for hiding-places. But there were none.

He did not see any of the servants about and he stood in the yard, pondering over his problem. Then his glance fell on the old well, and it instantly occurred to him that here was the very kind of place he was seeking. There was an old wheel pump beside it, rusty and dilapidated, working a rod to the plunger below. He imagined the well was not used, for on his last visit he had noticed a well-oiled force pump a hundred yards away at the kitchen door.

The well was surrounded by a masonry wall about three feet high, coped with roughly dressed stones. On the coping was a flat wooden grating, old and decaying. Ivy covered about half of the wall and grating.

French crossed the yard and, leaning over the wall, glanced down. The sides were black with age and he could distinguish no details of the walls, but there was a tiny reflection from the water far below. Then suddenly he noticed a thing which once again set him off into a ferment of delight.

The cross-bars of the grating were secured by mortar into niches cut in the stone. All of these bore signs of recent movement.

Satisfied that he had at last solved his problem, French quietly left the yard and, recovering his bicycle, rode back to the police station at Ashburton.

“I want your help, Sergeant,” he said as Daw came forward. “Can you get some things together and come out with me to Colonel Domlio’s to-night?”

“Of course, Mr. French.”

“Good. Then I want a strong fishing-line and some hooks and some twenty-five or thirty yards of strong cord. I should like also a candle-burning lantern and, of course, your electric torch. I want to try an experiment.”

“I’ll have all those ready.”

“I want to be there when there’s no one about, so, as the Colonel sits up very late, I think we’ll say three o’clock. That means we ought to leave here about one-fifteen. Can you borrow a second bicycle?”

The sergeant looked completely mystified by these instructions, but he answered, “Certainly,” without asking any questions. It was agreed that they should meet in the evening at his house, sitting up there until it was time to start.

Having explained at the hotel that he had to go to Plymouth and would be away all night, French started out for a tramp on the moor. About eleven he turned up at Daw’s cottage, and there the two men spent the next couple of hours smoking and chatting.

Shortly before three they reached Torview. They hid their bicycles in the brushwood and walked softly up the back drive to the yard. The night was fine and calm, but the sky was overcast and it was very dark. Not a sound broke the stillness.

Silently they reached the well, and French, with his electric torch, examined the wooden cover.

“I think if we lift together we can get it up,” he whispered. “Try at this side and use the ivy as a hinge.”

They raised it easily and French propped it with a billet of wood.

“Now, Sergeant, the fishing line.”

At the sergeant’s cottage they had tied on a bunch of hooks and a weight. French now let these down, having passed the line through one of the holes in the grating to ensure its swinging free from the walls. Gradually he paid out the cord until a faint plop announced that the water had been reached. He continued lowering as long as the cord would run out; then he began jerking it slowly up and down.

“Swing it from side to side, Sergeant, while I keep jerking it. If there’s anything there we should get it.”

For twenty minutes they worked, and then, just as French was coming to the conclusion that a daylight descent into the well would be necessary, the hooks caught. Something of fair weight was on the line.

“Let it stay till it stops swinging, or else we shall lose the hooks in the wall, Mr. French,” the sergeant advised, now as keenly interested as was French himself.

“Right, Sergeant. The water will soon steady it.”

After a few seconds, French began to pull slowly up, the drops from the attached object echoing loudly up the long funnel. And then came into the circle of the sergeant’s torch a man’s coat.

It was black and sodden and shapeless from the water, and slimy to the touch. They lifted it round the well so that the wall should be between them and the house and examined it with their electric torches.

In the breast pocket was a letter case containing papers, but it was impossible to read anything they bore. A pipe, a tobacco pouch, a box of matches, and a handkerchief were in the other pockets.

Fortunately for French, there was a tailor’s tab sewn into the lining of the breast pocket and he was able to make out part of the legend: “R. Shrubsole & Co., Newton Abbot.” Beneath was a smudge which had evidently been the owner’s name, but this was undecipherable.

“We’ll get it from the tailor,” French said. “Let’s try the hooks again.”

Once again they lowered their line, but this time without luck.

“No good,” French declared at last. “We’ll have to pump it out. You might get the depth, and then close up and leave it as we found it. We’d better bring a portable pump, for I don’t suppose that old thing will work.”

They replaced the grating and the billet of wood, and stealing silently out of the yard, rode back to Ashburton.

With the coat wrapped in paper and packed in his suitcase, French took an early bus to Newton Abbot. There he soon found Messrs. Shrubsole’s establishment and asked for the proprietor.

“It’s not easy to say whose it was,” Mr. Shrubsole declared when he had examined the coat. “You see, these labels of ours are printed—that is, our name and address. But the customer’s name is written and it would not last in the same way. I’m afraid I cannot read it.”

“If it had been possible to read it, I should not have come to you, Mr. Shrubsole. I want you to get at it from the cloth and size and probable age and things of that kind. You can surely find out all those things by examination.”

This appeared to be a new idea to Mr. Shrubsole. He admitted that something of the kind might be done, and calling an assistant, fell to scrutinising the garment.

“It’s that brown tweed with the purple line that we sold so much of last year,” the assistant declared. He produced a roll of cloth. “See, if we lift the lining here it shows clear enough.”

“That’s right,” his employer admitted. “Now can we get the measurements?”

“Not so easy,” said the assistant. “The thing will be all warped and shrunk from the water.”

“Try,” French urged, with his pleasant smile.

An orgy of measuring followed, with a subsequent recourse to the books and much low-voiced conversation. Finally Mr. Shrubsole announced the result.

“It’s not possible to say for sure, Mr. French. You see, the coat is shrunk out of all knowing. But we think it might belong to one of four men.”

“I see your difficulty, Mr. Shrubsole, but if you tell me the four it may help me.”

“I hope so. We sold suits of about this size to Mr. Albert Cunningham of Twenty-seven, Acacia Street, Newton Abbot; Mr. John Booth of Lyndhurst, Teignmouth; Mr. Stanley Pyke, of East Street, Ashburton; and Mr. George Hepworth, of Linda Lodge, Newton Abbot. Any of those any good to you?” Mr. Shrubsole’s expression suddenly changed. “By Jove! You’re not the gentleman that’s been making these discoveries about Mr. Berlyn and Mr. Pyke? We’ve heard some report that some Scotland Yard man was down and had found out that that tragedy was not all it was supposed to be. That it, sir?”

“That’s it,” French replied, feeling that it was impossible to keep his business private. “But I don’t want it talked about. Now you see why I should like to be sure whether that was or was not Mr. Pyke’s coat.”

But in spite of the tailor’s manifest interest, he declared that the point could not be established. He was fairly sure that it belonged to one of the four, but more than that he could not say.

But French had no doubt whatever, and, well pleased with his progress, he left the shop and took the first bus back to Ashburton.

Chapter Fifteen

Blackmail

“Have you been able to get the pump, Sergeant?” asked French as he reached the police station that afternoon.

“I’ve got the loan of one, Mr. French, or at least I’ll get it first thing to-morrow. From a quarry close by. It’s a rotary hand-pump, and Mr. Glenn, the manager, tells me that it will throw far faster than anything we’ll want.”

“We shall have to fix it down in the well?”

“Yes, the well’s forty-two feet deep. It’s thirty to the water and there’s twelve feet of water. But there’ll be no trouble about that. The beams that carry the old pump will take it, too.”

“You think they’re strong enough?”

“We’ll just have to try them.”

“What about ladders?”

“I’ve got a fifty-foot length of rope ladder from the same quarry.”

“Good. What time can we start to-morrow?”

“I shall have the pump by half past eight.”

“Then we should be at the colonel’s shortly after nine.”

This time French thought it would be wise to have Domlio present at their experiment. He therefore rang him up and made an appointment for nine-thirty.

Early next morning a heavily loaded car left Ashburton. In addition to the driver it contained French, Daw, and two constables in plain clothes, as well as a low, squat pump with detachable handle, an immense coil of armoured hose, another huge coil of rope ladder, and several tools and small parts.

“Another rush to Klondyke,” said French, at which priceless pearl of humour Daw smiled and the plain clothes men guffawed heavily.

“I should have thought that tailor could have fixed up the ownership of the coat,” Daw remarked, presently. “Shouldn’t you, sir?”

“Of course, Sergeant. But we shall get it, all right, even if we have to do all the work ourselves. I thought it wasn’t worth troubling about. It’s pretty certain the coat is not the only thing that was thrown into the well and we shall get our identification from something else.”

The car was run into the yard, unloaded, and dismissed, while French went to the hall door and asked for Colonel Domlio.

“Sorry to trouble you at this hour, Colonel, but I want you to be present at a small experiment I am carrying out.” He watched the other keenly as he spoke. “Will you please come out into the yard, where I have left Sergeant Daw and some men?”

Surprise showed on the colonel’s face, but not, so far as French could see, apprehension.

“This is very interesting, Inspector. I’m glad I’m at least being informed of what is taking place on my own ground. I shall certainly see what you are doing.”

As they turned the corner and the purpose of the visit became apparent to Domlio, his surprise seemed to deepen, but still there was no appearance of uneasiness. The police had lifted the cover of the well and were getting the pump rigged. Coombe and Mee had joined the others and stood speechlessly regarding the preparations.

“Ah, an invasion? I presume, Inspector, you have adequate authority for these somewhat unusual proceedings?”

“I think you’ll find that’s all right, sir. With your permission we’re going to pump out the well.”

“The removal of the well cover and the pump rather suggested something of the kind, but for the moment I can’t quite recall the permission.”

“I feel sure that under the circumstance you won’t withhold it. Better lower that lantern with the candle, Sergeant, before you send a man down. We want to be sure the air is good.”

“If it’s not an impertinence,” Domlio remarked, with ironic politeness, “I should be interested to know why you are not using the existing pump.”

“I didn’t think it was in working order. Is the well used?”

“An explanation, complete, no doubt, but scarcely satisfying. It did not occur to you to try it?”

“No, sir. Too noisy. But what about the well?”

“Ah yes, the well. The well is used—in summer. We have a gravity supply from the hill behind the house, but it fails in summer; hence pumping from the well.”

This statement was very satisfactory to French. It cleared up a point which had been worrying him. If it were possible to get rid of the clothes by throwing them down the well, why had Pyke’s body not been disposed of in the same way? But now this was explained. The condition of the water in the following summer would have led to investigation.

“Try the fixed pump, Sergeant. It may save us rigging the other.”

But a test showed that the valve leathers were dry and not holding, and they went on with their original program.

French had been puzzled by the colonel’s attitude. If beneath his cynical manner he were consumed by the anxiety which, were he guilty, he could scarcely help feeling, he was concealing it in a way that was little short of marvellous. However, the preparations would take time and it was impossible that if the man knew what would be found he could hide all signs of tension.

The candle, lowered to the surface of the water, burned clearly, showing that the air was fresh. The rope ladder was then made fast to the stonework and Sergeant Daw climbed down. Presently he returned to say that the beams on which the old pump rested were sound. The new pump was therefore lowered and one of the constables sent down to begin work.

Getting rid of the water turned out a bigger job than French had anticipated. Slowly the level dropped. At intervals the men spelled each other, French and Daw taking their turns. By lunch-time the water had gone down seven feet, though during the meal it rose six inches. After that they worked with renewed energy to get the remaining five feet six inches out before dusk.

“You have a second well, have you not, Colonel?” French enquired. “I noticed a pump near the kitchen door.”

“Yes. We use it for drinking purposes. This is only good enough for washing the car and so on.”

On more than one occasion Domlio had protested against what he called the waste of his time in watching the work. But French insisted on his remaining till the search was complete.

About four o’clock the water was so far lowered as to allow an investigation of the bottom, and the sergeant, squeezing past the man at the pump, went down with his electric torch. French, leaning over the wall, anxiously watched the flickering light. Then came the sergeant’s voice: “There’s a waistcoat and trousers and shoes here, Mr. French.”

“That all?” called French.

“That’s all that I see. I’ve got everything of any size, anyhow.”

“Well, tie them to the rope and we’ll pull them up.”

How Domlio would comport himself when he saw the clothes was now the important matter. French watched him keenly as the dripping bundle appeared and was carried to a bench in the garage.

Though the day’s work had prepared the man for some _dénoûment_, he certainly appeared to French to be genuinely amazed when the nature of the find was revealed.

“Good Heavens! Inspector! What does this mean?” he cried, squaring his shoulders. “Whose are these and how did you know they were there?”

French turned to the plain-clothes men. “Just wait outside the door, will you,” he said, then went on gravely to the other: “That is what I have to ask you, Colonel Domlio.”

“Me?” The man’s sardonic calm was at last broken. “I know nothing about them. The thing is an absolute surprise to me. I swear it.” His face paled and he looked anxious and worried.

“There is something I should tell you,” French continued. “On considering this Berlyn-Pyke case I formed a theory. I don’t say it is correct, but I formed it from the facts I had learnt. According to that theory you took out your car on the night of the tragedy, drove into Ashburton, picked up Mr. Pyke’s coat, waistcoat, trousers, shoes, and certain other things, brought them here and threw them into the well. A moment, please.” He raised his hand as Domlio would have spoken. “Rightly or wrongly, that was my theory. But there was a difficulty. You had stated to the sergeant that you had not gone out that night. I came here and found that that statement was not true. You had been out. Then I made further enquiries and learnt that you had taken out your car. You explained that, but I regret to say that I was unable to accept your explanation. I thought, however, that the presence or absence of these objects in the well would settle the matter. I looked at the well and saw that the cover had recently been moved. Two nights ago Sergeant Daw and I came out, and after trying with a line and fish-hooks, we drew up a coat—Pyke’s coat. Now, Colonel, if you wish to make a statement I will give it every consideration, but it is my duty again to warn you that anything you say may be used in evidence against you.”

“What? Are you charging me with a crime?”

“Unless you can satisfy me of your innocence you will be charged with complicity in the murder of Stanley Pyke.”

The Colonel drew a deep breath.

“But, good Heavens! How can I satisfy you? I don’t even know what you have against me, except this extraordinary business which I can make neither head nor tail of. You must know more about it than you have said. Tell me the rest.”

“You tell me this: Was your statement about the loss of the locket on that night true?”

Colonel Domlio did not reply. He seemed to be weighing some problem of overwhelming difficulty. French waited patiently, wondering how far his bluff would carry. At last the colonel spoke.

“I have lied to the sergeant and to you, Inspector, with what I now believe was a mistaken motive. I have been turning over the matter in my mind and I see that I have no alternative but to tell you the truth now or to suffer arrest. Possibly things have gone so far that this cannot be avoided. At all events, I will tell you everything.”

“You are not forgetting my warning, Colonel Domlio?”

“I am not forgetting it. If I am acting foolishly it is my own lookout. I tried to put you off, Inspector, to save bringing Mrs. Berlyn’s name further into the matter, because, though there was nothing against her character, I was sure you would have bothered her with annoying questions. But, though I thought it right to lie with this object, I don’t feel like risking prison for it.”

“I follow you,” said French.

“You will remember then what I told you about Mrs. Berlyn, that she had been seeing a good deal first of Pyke and then of myself. I’m sorry to have to drag this in again, but otherwise you wouldn’t understand the situation.